


beneath the mask lie secrets i've kept from myself

by tryslora



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Amnesiac Stiles Stilinski, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M, Minor Castiel/Dean Winchester, Past Derek Hale/Paige, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 06:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8361274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: So we’re going in because Krissy looks like this guy’s dead ex-girlfriend, and you don’t want to send her in without backup. Stiles supposes it sounds plausible and vaguely reasonable, and maybe it would be okay, if it didn’t turn out that Dean and Castiel left something important out of the job description.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for Prompt #195 "Facade" at Fullmoon_Ficlet. It's only loosely a facade, but hey, this is the silliness that occurred to me. It's also my very first time venturing tangentially into the Supernatural fandom, so be kind. <33

“So we’re going in because Krissy looks like this guy’s dead ex-girlfriend, and you don’t want to send her in without backup.” Stiles shakes his head, spreads his hands. “You realize I ran away from high school, right? I’m over eighteen. I don’t really want to go back.” He’s pretty sure he’s over eighteen. Amnesia’s kind of a bitch when he can’t remember his birthday.

“He’s a werewolf,” Dean points out.

“Reformed.” Krissy’s tone is light. “Big bad wolf, yeah, but he hasn’t eaten anyone in the year he’s been working here.”

“It’s called research, Dean.” Stiles pats him on the shoulder. “I know Sam usually does it for you, but I’d think you’d be learning how to do it better since he’s probably going to be hunting less, what with the baby and all.”

“Just shut up and listen.” Dean crowds in close, one finger jabbing at Stiles’s chest. “You wanted to hunt, and you wanted to help out. So you’re going in there and you’re going to find out what you can about this wolf and you’re going to make sure Krissy doesn’t get hurt.”

“Dean.”

All it takes is one word to make Dean stop, take a step back. Castiel doesn’t even touch him, but Stiles can feel the pull between them. He’s never seen them do anything, hell, he’s asked them point blank and Dean said they’re not dating. But Stiles knows better. It’s a thing he does, seeing the way people are tied up in knots around each other.

He might not remember anything of his life from before a year and a half ago, but he knows enough to know he probably isn’t entirely human. He also knows enough not to trust the Winchesters with that detail; it’s something only his new family knows.

“Perhaps we ought—”

“Cas, no.” Dean’s voice is a low growl, his hand shooting out to keep Castiel from stepping forward. “They’ve got all the information they need, and seems to me like Stiles is ready to do whatever research they have to do.”

“This is ridiculous.” Krissy grabs Dean’s shirt and yanks him down, kisses him on the cheek with a smack. She shoulders her backpack and turns away, waving as she does. “Bye, Dad! Bye, Dad!” she calls out, then she grabs Stiles’s hand to drag him along.

“No one’s going to believe we’re twins,” Stiles mutters, trailing after her into the school.

“Everyone’s going to believe we’re twins,” Krissy shoots back. “It’s the hair and the moles and the eyes. We’re perfect for fraternal twins. And when we get to fifth period History, Derek Hale is going to take one look at me and think he’s seen a ghost. And we’ll take advantage of that.”

“You realize we have to suffer through four periods before that, right?” Stiles groans as Krissy picks up the pace and he has to hurry to keep up with her. He spreads his hands. “I mean seriously, this is _high school_.”

“You’ll live,” she calls back, over her shoulder. “At least there won’t be any ghosts trying to kill us.”

#

By the time the bell rings at the end of fourth period (Calculus, gods, could it be any more dull the second time around?), Stiles is ready to give up and go. “I’d rather be salting and burning a dozen ghost skeletons,” he grumbles. “Twenty. _Thirty_. Krissy, this isn’t worth it. The guy’s never hurt a fly. And you know what the best part of this whole job is? Dean doesn’t even seem to think we should kill him.”

Krissy pauses, her head cocked. “You know, you’re right. Cas must be wearing off on him.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Castiel is just as vengeful as Dean sometimes.” Stiles shoulders her as they head out of the room and down the hallway. “Well, mostly when it has to do with Dean. You know, I’m pretty sure they’re—”

“Stiles?”

He turns at the sound, looks behind himself down the hallway. “Krissy, did you just hear…?”

“ _Paige_?”

Oh. This has to be Derek Hale.

He’s drop dead gorgeous. The pictures don’t do him justice in any way. He’s also standing there with his mouth slightly open, tongue poking out beneath his bunny teeth, and his eyes wide. Derek blinks several times as Krissy looks at him curiously.

“I’m Krissy,” she says. “This is my twin brother, Stiles.”

Stiles is prepared for the way Derek seems to adjust mentally when he hears Krissy’s name. He is absolutely unprepared for the cold shock that steals into his expression at Stiles’s name.

“Stiles is an unusual name,” Derek says. Stiles frowns, because he can’t read his voice. There’s something there, some undercurrent that Stiles is missing, and it bothers him. He’s better than that.

“It’s a nickname. Mr. Hale?” he asks, as if he has no idea who Derek is.

Derek nods once.

“We’re new,” Krissy says with a small smile. She hooks her arm through Stiles’s, yanks him tight against her hip. He can feel the hidden knife that she wears, and he knows that under her stylish jacket is a small gun. “Where should we sit?”

“Anywhere,” Derek says. He stands there in the doorway watching them. Stiles can feel the weight of Derek’s gaze even with his back turned to him, heavy and solid across his shoulders.

“What was that?” Krissy hisses as she shoves her backpack under one of the chairs. “Why has this job gone off-script?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No idea. It’s got to be something further back, something before he moved here and got this job.”

“And he knew someone named _Stiles_.” Krissy’s eyebrows go up and she peers at him like it’s significant.

It can’t be significant.

Fuck, who is he trying to fool? It’s almost definitely significant.

His phone buzzes, and he looks at it while Krissy pulls hers out of her pocket.

_You in History yet?_

Stiles rolls his eyes and types back in the group chat. _Yeah, Dean, we’re in History. Anything you want to tell us?_

There’s no answer, and Stiles shoves his phone back in his pocket, irritated. It’s a pity that Castiel still doesn’t like texting, and refuses to use the group chat. He could get Castiel to spill whatever secrets are being held here, and it would be a hell of a lot easier than digging into Derek Hale’s past.

He should’ve known never to trust a Winchester to give him the full story.

#

“You owe your life to the Winchesters,” Krissy reminds him when Stiles complains while they’re at lunch. “They found you. They helped you meet up with the rest of us, and we kept you alive when you couldn’t remember anything more than your name.”

“I knew how to survive,” Stiles says darkly. “I would’ve been fine. It’d be better than whatever ulterior motive Dean has here.”

“Do you really think Cas would let him use us if it was going to be a big problem?” Krissy asks. Stiles rolls his eyes, because of course, she’s got a point.

“You know they’re probably getting it on in the motel room,” Stiles tells her, not because he necessarily believes it, but because it’s fun to see the way Krissy scowls when he suggests it. “I’m sure they’ll shower. But maybe we should sleep on the floor.”

“There’s only one bed. We were already going to sleep on the floor.”

A shadow falls over the table, and they both glance up. Derek Hale. Well, that’s making the _keep him under observation_ part of the assignment easy.

“Stiles and Krissy Van Halen,” Derek says slowly.

“Like the rockstar,” Stiles quips. “That’s us. Twins. New kids. Not all that interested in History, though, and really wondering why our History teacher is sitting down at our table.” Because Derek is doing exactly that, sliding onto one of the stupid little stools that circle around the table.

Derek has his arms on the table, his nostrils flaring as he leans closer to them.

“Dude, are you sniffing us?” Stiles gets a hand up between them. “Krissy, that’s illegal, right? Sniffing teenagers?”

“I’m not sniffing you,” Derek says dryly. “You have detention. Both of you. Room 153. Be there by five minutes after the final bell.” He pushes to his feet. “Don’t be late.”

Stiles’s jaw drops open. He’s pretty damned sure he’s no stranger to detention, but he’s also pretty sure you’re supposed to do something to earn it. “I didn’t do anything. Hale!” he shouts at Derek’s retreating back. “I didn’t do anything!”

Derek just walks away.

“That was weird.” Krissy pulls an apple out of her bag, bites into it. “Is it just me, or did Castiel actually pack really good lunches? I think he’s enjoying this.”

“Are we actually going to detention?” Stiles asks. He peers into the brown bag and pulls out two sandwiches, a bag of chips, and an apple. It is a ridiculously domestic lunch. “I’d rather have curly fries.”

“If Derek Hale is going to be at detention, then yes, we are going to detention.” Krissy points a finger at Stiles. “It’s the job.”

#

Stiles barely gets inside the door to room 153 when he’s grabbed and slammed up against the wall. He hears Krissy shout, hears her kick the door closed with a thud. There’s the click of a safety coming off, and everything freezes.

Derek’s got his hands on Stiles’s shoulder, holds him just enough off the ground that Stiles is on his toes. Derek’s eyebrows are gone, his sideburns thick with fur, and his mouth is full of teeth.

Oh yeah, werewolf.

“This is loaded with wolfsbane bullets,” Krissy says idly, her gun pressed against Derek’s temple. “Put Stiles down.”

“He’s not your twin,” Derek growls.

“We’re not even related.” Stiles stays limp in his grasp, trying not to antagonize him. “Now be a good dog and heel, before she puts that bullet in your brain.”

“Hunters.” Derek drops Stiles, and he stumbles, trying to regain his footing.

Krissy puts the gun up, spreads her hands. “We’re just investigating here, and if you don’t put your teeth in his skin, it’ll be better for you.”

Derek’s gaze rakes over her. His nostrils flare again and he steps close, presses his nose behind Krissy’s ear, and inhales audibly. “You’re not Paige.”

“Definitely not, since I’m alive and she’s dead, according to our research,” Krissy says. “Can you back up now, like a good dog?”

“No dog jokes.” Derek turns his attention to Stiles, and again, Stiles feels the weight of it. It wraps around him like rope, tying his arms to his sides, like glue sticking his feet to the floor. He wants to move, but he can’t.

Stiles tilts his head as Derek leans closer, shudders when he feels the warmth of Derek’s breath ghost across his skin.

“Stiles,” Derek exhales, and it sounds like a prayer, or a starving man begging for crumbs.

Stiles’s phone buzzes as Krissy’s chimes. Stiles takes a step back, refuses to look at Derek, instead focusing on the phone in his hands. “Dean’s waiting outside,” he mutters. “We should go.” And he would go, if he could move his feet, if he could put more than this bare distance between the two of them.

“You know that thing you do, that you talked about, with the strings,” Krissy says. “Does Derek have any?”

They’re swallowing Stiles down, drowning him, cocooning him in a space where he’s not sure he can breathe or see the light. “I can’t tell,” he says, and it’s a lie in choked words.

Something shifts in Derek’s expression, from sorrow to resolve. There’s a soft growl, then he grabs Stiles’s shirt again, yanks him close. His mouth fits across Stiles’s perfectly, slants like he knows exactly the right angle and breadth. Stiles whimpers at the taste of him, at the way the threads draw closer yet, making him sway into Derek Hale, and his mouth opens under the onslaught.

Derek tastes like peppermint and chocolate, like curly fries and like the fresh air of the woods. He makes Stiles’s head spin with things just out of reach, just barely outside his vision, like there are things that maybe he knows or could know, if he could just look hard enough.

When Derek kisses him again, one of them spins into sharp relief, and Stiles grips Derek’s shoulders, holding on tight. “Derek,” he exhales, and he feels the wolf go slack against him.

“Gross.” Krissy’s voice is a splash of cold water, and Stiles steps back, forces space between himself and Derek.

Not Derek, the werewolf. The job.

“It’s like watching my brother make out with someone, because that’s what you’re like,” she says. “An annoying brother that Dean handed off to us eighteen months ago. And I love you, I do, but Stiles—I cannot watch you suck face with a werewolf.”

“Stilinski,” Stiles stammers out, because the word is hovering in his mind, louder than everything else. “Stiles _Stilinski_.”

It’s only one tiny thing, but it’s more than he’s had for eighteen months. More than he’s had since Sam, Dean, and Castiel picked him alongside the road, just outside of Albuquerque. It’s a memory.

Krissy’s breath whooshes out, as their phones buzz again.

“We need to—” Stiles gestures at the door. “I need to… except I’m… we’re….” He gestures from himself to Derek and back again. “Krissy, I—”

“Remember how you thought maybe Dean left something out?” Krissy asks. She gets a hand around his upper arm and yanks, and Stiles trips as she pulls him to the door. “I think maybe we all ought to go ask him about that. _All_ of us.”

Stiles is all too aware of the way Derek follows them out, the threads that wrap around them thick and solid and warm.

#

“They’re coming.” Castiel looks over to where Dean leans against the Impala. Dean’s arms are crossed, his face knit into an irritated frown. “Dean, you knew this would happen.”

“Don’t have to like it,” Dean mutters.

“You can admit that you care for them,” Castiel says quietly. “You treasure family, Dean, and these children are a part of your family. Our family.”

Dean throws a sharp glare at him, and Castiel simply stares back.

“He’s going to want to stay here, at least until he knows what happened,” Castiel says.

“Cas, _we_ don’t know what happened. For all we know, tall, dark and hairy there,” Dean gestures at where Derek Hale is following Krissy and Stiles out of the school, “may be the reason Stiles was beaten within an inch of his life and left for dead on the side of the highway. All we know is that they were together once, back in Beacon Hills. We don’t know what changed.”

“But shouldn’t Stiles have the chance to figure that out?”

Dean grumbles, and Castiel moves closer to him, leans against the car beside him and knocks into his shoulder. It’s a subtle motion, but he feels the way Dean leans back against him in return.

“You care enough that you want him to be happy,” Castiel murmurs, and Dean refuses to reply.

“You are a lying liar who lies!” Stiles jabs Dean in the chest as soon as he gets there. He doesn’t stand down when Dean draws himself up to his full height, looks down the extra inch at Stiles. Stiles just jabs at him again. “You could’ve warned me. Told me. But no, no, you just had to send us in there cold, and—”

“You could’ve done more research,” Castiel observes quietly, and Stiles cuts off with a choked sound. “You must be Derek Hale.”

The werewolf isn’t imposing. Taller than Castiel, but not quite as tall as Dean. Broad through the shoulder, musculature evident. But he hunches in on himself, makes himself smaller as he stands there. And his heart is clearly written in his eyes when he looks at Stiles, stares at him like a treasure only recently rediscovered.

Castiel knows that look, knows that emotion. He suspects others see it at times when he looks at Dean.

“Yeah, we sent you in without all the information,” Dean admits. “So tell me what you found out.”

“Watching Stiles make out with Derek is probably a lot like what it must be like for you to have to watch Sam make out with his wife,” Krissy says, fitting the gun back into its holster under her jacket.

“I know him,” Stiles says quietly. “And I know my full name now. I don’t know everything, but it’s there, just out of reach.”

“Derek Hale apparently has magic lips,” Krissy says dryly.

“Really,” Dean says. Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder, silencing anything else that might be coming.

“Derek Hale,” Castiel says. “Were you in any way responsible for what happened to Stiles?”

Steel slips into Derek’s spine. He straightens as he shakes his head. “No. He left for college and he disappeared.”

“Then he’s yours,” Dean says. “And welcome to him. He’s more trouble than Gabriel was, sometimes, and that’s saying something since Stiles can’t create magical chaos.”

“You’d be surprised,” Derek says quietly, and there’s a quirk at one corner of his mouth.

“Wait, you think I’m staying here?” Stiles asks.

“You don’t want to?” Derek’s tone is hurt, and Stiles winces.

“I didn’t say that. It’s just. This is fast. Really fast. And right now the school would honestly think you’ve been kissing a student, which is probably not what we want. Since I’m over eighteen this shouldn’t be a problem in reality, but we need to fix a few things,” Stiles muses.

“You’re twenty. I can get your ID from your dad.”

“My dad?” Stiles looks up, and his eyes go wide. “I remember him.”

Krissy wraps her arms around Stiles, hugs him hard. “Be safe. I can’t believe I’m leaving you with a werewolf, but it seems like _someone_ knew this was where you were supposed to be.”

“Krissy, get in the car.”

She rolls her eyes at Dean. “He’s going to be bossier than ever without you along, Stiles. Thanks for that. Okay, _Dad_. I’ll get in the car, _Dad_.”

Castiel loves the way Dean bites back the laughter, the way it crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Come on, Dean. Stiles will be fine.”

It takes more time than that, needing a proper round of reassurances, and an exchange of numbers and information. Dean promises to have Stiles’s things sent from the house in Kansas, and Stiles promises to keep in touch. Derek offers information about other supernatural creatures who aren’t causing trouble, who could be willing allies for Hunters. He mentions the name _Argent_ , and Dean nods knowingly while Stiles’s expression turns inward and Castiel wonders what memories that might dredge up.

In the end, though, Castiel rumbles, “It’s time to be on the road. Dean, let’s get in the car.”

Krissy is waiting for them, sprawled across the back seat, her phone in her hands, fingers flying across the screen. “Just catching everyone back home up on the news. They’re gonna miss Stiles.” She rights herself and leans on the seat between them. “You’re an old softie, you know.”

She doesn’t specify which one she’s talking to, and Castiel suspects she means both of them.

She leans back again, arms crossed. “You should also stop hiding your relationship. Just kiss already. If I can survive those two going at it, I’m pretty sure I can survive my surrogate dads getting it on.” She gestures at the window, where Castiel can see Derek and Stiles, their arms wrapped around each other.

“They do appear to be reacquainting themselves with the level of intimacy they had prior to Stiles’s disappearance,” Castiel murmurs. He glances back at Dean to him staring at Castiel. “Dean?”

Dean’s hand snakes out, cradles Castiel’s head. The kiss is warm and familiar, the intimacy strange to be sharing in public like this. It is also too brief, passing quickly before Dean slides away, settles into the driver’s seat. There’s a small smirk that twists Dean’s lips, and it leaves coiled heat in Castiel’s gut.

“I was wrong. I don’t want to see it. Still gross,” Krissy says.

Castiel just smiles and sits back as Dean twists the volume up on the radio. They’ve done a good thing here today. “She’s right, you know,” Castiel murmurs. “You are an old softie.”

Dean just growls in response, as they drive on.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


End file.
